Rick walked into Calgrave Central like a man reborn. For once, he had slept through the night undisturbed. No half-remembered dreams clawing at the edges of slumber, no early-hour calls from dispatch, no phantom screams reverberating in the marrow. Only silence. Heavy, healing silence. He’d awoken to soft gray light slanting past the blinds, the apartment still and smelling of tobacco and gun oil. It was the first time in weeks he didn’t feel like his bones were made of broken glass.
The drive to the station had been almost pleasant. Streets washed clean by the early morning rain, steam rising in soft plumes from manhole covers, the city humming with rush hour traffic. He was freshly showered, white shirt crisp, new tie neat against his chest, fedora tilted just so. Even the clack of his shoes across the lobby had a cadence of confidence. Calgrave’s wet fog had followed him in, a jealous lover clinging to his coat, but he didn’t feel stifled. The scent of stale coffee and printer toner didn’t claw at him today; it felt familiar, grounding.
Until he stepped past the front desk.
The tension in the air had a different flavor, sharper than the everyday static of stress. A subtle thrum caught between words, in the too-quick glances exchanged by uniforms and clerks. Phones rang longer than usual before being picked up. Voices were hushed, clipped. Something had rippled through the building, left a tremor in its wake. Nobody met his eye. He took the elevator to the bullpen and nodded at Detective Sloan from Vice, who returned it too quickly, gaze skimming past him like he was contagious.
He found Frank in their office, hunched over, hands steepled on the desk like a man in prayer. The blinds were half-closed, muting the light into dull silver streaks. A coffee sat untouched near his elbow.
“Who died?” Rick joked as he shrugged off his trench and hung it, along with his hat, on the Bentwood coat stand, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Frank raised his head, face taut, jaw clenched. There was a weight in his stare—not quite grief, not quite anger. A suspension of disbelief, waiting to collapse. “Hayes,” he said. “Shot himself last night in his home.”
It hit Rick in the chest like a slow-motion car crash. Not shock exactly—more the jarring lurch of a reality refusing to cohere. He sank into the chair across from Frank, the old leather creaking beneath him. “What the hell happened?”
Frank rubbed his temples with both hands, as if trying to scrub the news out of his skull. “Neighbor heard the gunshot around two a.m. Cops found him slumped in his bedroom. No note.”
Rick swallowed hard. His good mood was already dissolving like aspirin in water, fizzing into something bitter. Marvin Hayes was a piece of shit, but suicide? He didn’t seem the type. Rick stared at the cluttered desk between him and Frank, its surface scattered with folders, sticky notes, two-day-old takeout cartons.
Frank threw something across—an evidence photo printed in low-res black and white. “Here’s the kicker,” he said. “They found this next to the body.”
Rick’s stomach turned.
The chest harness was unmistakable. Black leather, silver buckles, the kind of thing you’d expect to find in a nightclub back room, not by a newly dead cop. Tossed onto the rug like a grim souvenir.
He met Frank’s eyes. “Tell me that’s not—”
“It is,” Frank said. “The forensics ran the prints. They match.”
Silence opened between them, long and terrible.
Rick felt the slow creep of unease lace its fingers around his ribs. Not just because Hayes had stolen it. Not just because Hayes had died with it beside him. But because the memory of Ash’s words slammed into him like a thrown wrench. ‘Soon he won’t be in a position to hurt anyone.’
“For fuck’s sake,” Rick muttered, reaching into his suit pocket for a cigarette. The match scraped once, twice before catching. He drew in the smoke, held it, let it burn a hole through the knot tightening in his chest. Something had been set in motion, and Hayes’s death was only the next stone to fall. Not random. Not clean. It had the stink of convenience, of hidden hands and unseen strings.
And always, always, Ash Hunter at the center. Slippery as mercury. Beautiful as a mirage. A dark eidolon with shadows stitched into his skin, half-truths for bones. Every time Rick thought he was done with him, another thread led back.
Guilt rattled him as his thoughts swirled back to the night before, jerking off in the shower to the chimera of Ash’s mouth, Ash’s eyes, Ash’s body. No matter what he did, it seemed he couldn’t escape his gravity. Ash was a key left hidden in plain sight—and Rick was done waiting to turn the lock.
He shot up from the chair and strode into the bullpen. A cigarette clung to his lower lip, trailing a slow ribbon of smoke as he made his way to the rear windows. The hum of printers and low voices buzzed around him—everyday noise, stretched thin by tension. Phones rang, a desk drawer slammed shut somewhere, the usual symphony of departmental rush. He stopped beside Kitty’s desk, watching her type with sharp, practiced economy, her red-polished nails clicking like castanets.
“Hey, doll,” he said, settling on the edge of her desk, arms loosely crossed.
She raised one manicured finger without glancing away from the screen, the reflected glow bathing her cheekbones in soft electric blue. A few more keystrokes, and she swiveled in her chair, adjusting her cat-eye glasses with a flick. “What do you need, stud muffin?”
“A favor,” Rick said, towering over her, his voice a low rumble. “The kind you don’t tell your boss about.”
She gave a wry, red-lipped smile. “That’s what men say right before they ruin your day.”
“It’s important.” He shot a look toward the captain’s door before continuing. “There’s no time to go through the DA or a judge and wait for the clearance. I need you to bypass the red tape. Vital Records, Social Services—anything you can find on Ashton Hunter. Birth certificate, adoption files, early placement.”
Kitty blinked once, her expression sharpening. “Is this Sculptor-related?”
Rick hesitated, cigarette flaring between his fingers. “Call it a hunch.”
She didn’t press, just turned back to her monitor and began typing. Rick watched as windows unfurled: DMV, Calgrave General, hospital archives, city databases. She worked fast, precise, one wrist cocked at a slant, red castanets flying.
“You got probable cause for this?” she asked without looking up.
